


Queen of Diamonds

by entanglednow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, F/M, Hate Sex, Shower Sex, slight dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She still believes this isn't the end. She still believes they all deserve better than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Diamonds

The school showers still work, Allison's not entirely sure how, out of all the things that are broken, all the things that are gone now. This all seems wrong, that the school has become the place so many people feel safe, the only place some of them feel safe. With its floodlights, and its metal doors, and enough wood to bar all the windows, once they ripped up the bleachers. God, that feels so long ago, when this was a place people came to hang around in the hallways, and pass notes in class. To learn things that are a million miles away from what they're learning now.

The school is a fort now, or something like it, it's a fort that gets shut up tight at night. Against what the world has become, against supernatural things that couldn't pass for human, or didn't want to. They're vicious, but not endless, out there in the dark, and no matter how bad things get, people will win eventually. They'll win, and everything will go back to normal. Everything will come back together. Allison just has to push her way through, she just has to survive it. They all do.

She still believes that, she still believes that, no matter what she tells her father, no matter what Scott thinks.

This can't last forever.

No one would let this last forever.

She lets the bag she's holding slide off her shoulder, feels the squish of blood where it's half dried in the material of her jacket. It makes peeling it off unpleasant, especially when she realises that it's soaked through in places, blood going dark on her jumper. She finds a tear in the jacket, an open slash in the leather, three inches long, where a talon worked its way inside. Too close to her neck, much too close. She takes the clip out of her hair, feels where the strands of it paint new red lines on her face and hates what she's become, just a little bit. She wonders, not for the first time, or the tenth, why she doesn't just cut it all off. It would be easier, after all.

But it's something she wants to keep. She doesn't want to stray that far from the old Allison. The one she'd thought was who she really was, before all this began.

She strips her clothes off, disgusted, lets them drop against the tiles, sets her boots on the bench, where they won't end up covered with blood-stained water. No one's going to come in here now, almost everyone else is asleep. Though she isn't sure she'd care, to be honest, she's put enough bandages on her friends, she's held enough of them up to shower herself. Which is tragically messed up, because teenagers should be able to work through their body issues without broken bones and stab wounds taking the option from them. She steps into the spray before it's warm, hissing in through her teeth, body tightening. But it's only unpleasant for a minute, then it's just water, washing away all the dirt, and bits of grit, and the tacky lines of blood - which aren't hers. Which don't feel like hers. But it wouldn't be the first time she's found scratches and punctures once she's clean, bleeding slowly and brightly on damp skin.

The things you miss when you're trying to stay safe, the things you forget, Allison wishes that trying to be normal every once in a while didn't feeling so exhausting. But she could beat her fists bloody, cry until someone came and found her on the floor, and nothing would change. It wouldn't change anything - which makes a difference - so she doesn't.

She's scrubbing a line of tree sap and dirt off her forearm when she realises she's being watched. She hadn't heard anyone come in, but she's got good instincts, and she's never regretted trusting them, especially now. Her weapons are six feet away, but if she turns in that direction she's pretty sure she can make it on wet, bare feet without slipping.

She's half way through turning when she recognises her unwanted visitor. Deucalion is standing just inside the doorway. She's not sure whether to take a few steps forward, lean and pick up her towel, or to stand her ground. If it had been anyone else she probably would have gone for the towel. She wonders if she should have done, after it already feels like she's waited too long.

"Get out." She wants that to sound angrier. But she's exhausted, and her body aches in a dozen ways. She's used up all her anger, and even though she's still working through the fact that they're not enemies any more, that Deucalion has become, reluctantly or not, one of the pieces holding their group together, she still knows exactly what he is. And the fact that he's staring past her, or possibly _through_ her, as if it doesn't matter that she's naked, irritates the hell out of her.

"I simply came to tell you how impressed I was earlier, by your performance." He moves into the room, and he doesn't stalk like the other werewolves, he just comes forward in slow, measured steps, as if he doesn't expect to be stopped.

"Funny, because it looks a lot like standing there in the dark, watching me shower," Allison counters. She very pointedly doesn't cross her arms.

"That would be a little difficult," Deucalion says, he sounds amused. " _Listening_ to you shower, perhaps, which really isn't the same, take my word for that." He comes closer, still oddly slow without his cane, just far enough to stand under the light, far enough for her to see his face clearly. Even Allison can hear the electric hum of it, she's never understood how werewolves can tune things like that out, the blunt noises of the world.

She's not sure if she really believes him, because she's _seen him_ , she's seen him take down things twice his size in the dark. She's been there with him, she's put arrows in things to slow them down, so the wolves could tear them apart. She knows better than to trust his harmless act. She knows what he is, even without vision.

"It was my father's plan," she says, steps back and leaves the flow of water between them, lets it blur the sound of her voice. In case she needs to be somewhere else. Though in close quarters she hates to admit that he probably has the upper hand. But he's the one who taught her that some people will always be more powerful than you, some of them only because they were willing to do anything to get there. She hopes she's still around to see something take a bite out of him. For all that they're on the same side.

"Which you executed to the letter," Deucalion says. Either pretending he can't hear what she's doing, or not worried enough to care. She thinks she knows him well enough to assume the latter.

"You certainly did what you were told. You've been doing that a lot lately. I bet that just kills you, having to follow my father's orders." 

He smiles, and if she'd wanted him to show offense at that she's disappointed. He looks amused instead.

"He does make a rather good general, and we seem to be at war, do we not? You almost sound like you wish you were in charge, Allison. Is that a confidence in your own abilities, or just a desire to hold the leash?"

There's no way she can leave that alone, because if anyone here needs to be on a leash, it's him.

"Why? Are you going to roll over for me too?"

Deucalion's eyebrows rise, amusement and curiousity.

"I might. Given the right incentive."

She stares at him through the water, and he smiles as if he can see it, as if he can see her.

"I'm not giving you anything. You be as obedient as you want. I know you're on our side for exactly as long as it benefits you and no longer."

"Always so certain that I'm working against you, even now, even with the world going to hell?"

That sounds like an honest question, one he's looking for an answer to. Because the world is going to hell, unless they stop it. But if Allison's brutally honest this all seemed like an uphill battle, even in those first few optimistic weeks.

"You're an opportunist. I don't think you care what happens to the world. I'm not sure you care about anything."

"On the contrary, we have exactly the same goal at present. Which is why I'm taking such an interest in your progress. Which is why it hurts me to see you find something you're good at, somewhere you excel, only to find judgment in response to that talent." Deucalion comes closer, shoes almost silent on the tiles. His head tilts, curiously, as if he's looking her up and down. "You really are exquisite, you should let yourself go more often."

Allison clenches her teeth, and steps back.

"Don't even try and convince me we're the same. I'm doing what I do to save people. I'm doing it because I have to."

She barely finishes the sentence before he's right in front of her, and she's being pushed, cold and sudden, against the tiles, hard enough to jar her bones and shake a noise out of her. Deucalion's hand is wrapped round her naked throat, water pouring against her shoulder and her thigh. His face is inches from her own, eyes focused somewhere at her mouth. He crushes in closer still, pressed tight against her wet skin, on every bruise and ache, the heat of him and the rapidly soaking fabric squeezing the air out of her - and she knows he could keep squeezing until her neck snaps.

"And you're enjoying every moment of it. Don't pretend that you're not." 

Allison digs her nails into the back of his hand, claws it.

"Let go of me."

"Allison -"

Allison straightens her fingers, and stabs under his arm, hard - Deucalion twists away, but far from looking offended he looks satisfied, mouth curving into half a smile. He takes a step back, his eyes shut and he inhales slowly, whatever he smells from her he seems to approve.

"Do you think this isn't what I want to see? You not holding yourself back for once, you at your very best. If I truly had a design I was withholding from you, that seems like a worthy goal." His voice is soft, conversational, as if the moment of violence never happened. "I wouldn't be surprised if deep down, you're almost as much of an animal as I am." His mouth stretches, smile widening. 

Allison shoves at his chest, edges him back another step, outside her personal space, away from her body.

"That wasn't a compliment, and you knew I wouldn't take it as one," she hisses. "Whatever you want, I'm not interested."

Deucalion sighs, makes it sound like she's being difficult over something that doesn't matter.

"I've seen the way he looks at you, the way you let him make you feel guilty for being who you are. Which I'm sure you've already noticed is a rather interesting irony, considering."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say about him." Scott is not up for discussion, because everything is too raw and too confusing. The people they are now - the way he looks at her sometimes. She can't deal with that, not now, not with the way she feels.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I have great respect for young Scott. The potential in him is incredible. The potential in you though - I'm starting to think I should have seen that sooner. It is something I genuinely regret."

Deucalion catches Allison's face in his hand, before she can jerk her head back out of the way, thumb sliding up over her chin, finding her mouth and pressing down there. He stares at her like he can see her, and she's aware, suddenly, of how naked she is. Of how she hasn't even tried to cover herself. 

"I think you're too cruel for him," Deucalion says.

Allison slams the heel of her palm into his face and he takes it, reaches up for her hand and uses it to jerk her forward, heel squeaking on the tiles. She wavers, unbalanced for a second, until he rights her effortlessly.

"You're getting sloppy, Allison, unfocused, I suggest you find an outlet for your anger, before it gets the better of you."

Allison jerks her wrist out of his grips.

"I'm dealing with my anger fine. I don't need your suggestions." 

"Oh, I would have thought you'd enjoy having someone to hate for a while."

Allison doesn't feel tired any more, she's suddenly furious at the insinuation, it crests like a wave over her restless frustration.

"And you think I would pick you," she chokes out, heartbeat jumping. She tells herself she's offended, though why, for which part, she isn't sure.

"I would have thought you'd like someone who couldn't see how disgusted you were. Someone you didn't have to be pleasant to. Someone you had no qualms about trying to break. I have more experience with that than you realise, not to mention a certain willingness to..." He trails off, seems to wait for her to decide how that ends.

"Be used?" Her voice sounds flat to her, but something about his face tells her he's reading things she never intended to share. That she would never say to him, and the rest of what she wanted to say lodges in her throat.

"If you like." For an instant he looks like exactly what he isn't, harmless, breakable, dead eyes fixed lower than her own, wandering blindly over the line of her mouth. But then he smiles, soft and sudden, and it says for all the world, that he doesn't think she could.

Allison wants to use him them, or perhaps it would just be easier than to face her own fears, her own insecurities. Though that still feels like an excuse. It makes her angrier still. Water streams between her feet when she steps forward, when she reaches up, in a moment of reckless insanity. Weaponless and naked, and fully aware of what he is, hating him in a way that makes it all wrong. She pushes her fingers into his wet hair, pulling it until his head tips back, forcing him to bare his throat to her. Deucalion lets her, he lets her and she doesn't know why. She tells herself she's testing him. She tells herself she'll break away at any moment, that this twisted thing she knows she's considering will turn back to insults and lies. But it's wrong, she's wrong. He's going to give her as much as she wants to take, and nothing about her believes that this is anything more than what he wants. Because it's always what he wants. What he can _use_.

She could hurt him, she wants to hurt him, and he'd let her, but he'd be laughing at the same time.

She can't decide which of them would win.

She can't possibly do this, she won't go farther than this - she doesn't want to be that person. She doesn't want to need like this.

But she does, she lets Deucalion's hands lift and settle on her waist, easing her back against the tiles, pressing her there, where the cold is rapidly being replaced by the warmth of her own body. The press of fingertips on her skin, digging in then relaxing and sliding higher. She doesn't pull away, doesn't do anything. She lets Deucalion touch her, tightens her fingers in his hair and breathes, breathes but doesn't jerk away when his hands move up her ribcage, thumbs outlining the wet curves of her breasts. She listens to him sigh, in a way that says her body was a complete mystery to him. She feels him settle a wet shoe between her soaked feet and leans in, all the way in.

"Don't kiss me," she says, throat jerking and cracking on the words. Because if she can keep that much she's not just as broken as he is.

"Why? Are you afraid you'll like it."

"Try it and I'll bite you."

He laughs an inch from her mouth, then tips his head down, follows the path of his thumb with eyes that can't see. The slide and curve that shapes her breast, in a way she doesn't try and resist. There's a murmur of appreciation - and then the touch is harder, testing what she will allow, fingers gliding up to hold, and squeeze - and when she inhales, sharply, his hand slides down, over the plane of her stomach, fingers falling lower - and she can see the white of his teeth when his hand pushes between her thighs. She clenches them, hisses, and hates herself when she lets them relax a second later.

He touches her, and she fists her hands and spreads her thighs a little, lets him inside, feels the hard slide of his fingers, the press and rock of his thumb and she's ashamed, suddenly and horribly, of how quickly her body reacts. Of how much it wants. It feels like a betrayal, because the one thing she'd had, the one good thing, was everything this isn't. She pulls at Deucalion's belt, at his shirt. She honestly can't tell if it's impatience, or desperation to have this done before she hates herself any more. Until the wet floor is covered in buttons and soaking leather. She's dragging the shirt down his back, feeling the warmth of his spine under her damp palm, the way the muscles shift when he shakes it free. Her hands fall away when his grips the back of her neck, jerking her head up and finding her open mouth. He kisses her roughly, bites her, but she bites him back, harder. She's the one who draws blood. She's the one who leaves it smeared against his mouth.

She pushes her hand down the front of his pants, heart pounding, finds him solid and hot. Hands circle her thighs and lift - she's not prepared for this, for the reality of this, for how quickly she's fallen from wary argument to reckless freefall. She would never - she could never have done this before, but she couldn't do it with any of her friends now. She's so angry, so impossibly angry, and tight with a tension that won't leave her, that won't let her breathe for more than a moment. She wants to scream so badly she can feel it in her throat, she's been feeling it in her throat for a while. This feels like screaming, feels enough like screaming that she wants it.

"You bastard," she hisses. Even as she pushes at the waist of his pants, digs her heel into the side of his thigh. "Don't think this changes anything. This is all this is." She says that twice, lower the second time, more breathless when he starts to push into her, and she's wet enough to make it easy, to make everything she says a lie. But the way he groans out her name, breath warm against her skin, the way he digs his fingers in like he's wanted her, wanted to ruin her - and never thought she'd let him.

Allison hates the way that makes her feel.

She hates how much she likes it.

The wall is cold at her back, and Deucalion is hard and hot, and shoved all the way inside her, where he shouldn't be. But her body tightens around him, greed and relief, uncaring who or what he is, just desperate. Deucalion gives her what she wants, what she's never had before. He isn't kind, he isn't gentle with her, he makes Allison's body open for him, and she clenches her toes and groans her way through it. She calls him names, vicious and hateful, between every punched-out exhale, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other tight around the shower head, water streaming down Deucalion's back, droplets scattering across the floor. She can see the wet, stretched-out line of his shirt on the floor, she can see his hand braced on the wall, fingers pressed into the tiles, muscles in his arm flexing every time she thuds into the wall, the wet scrape across her shoulders that's going to leave her skin red.

He kisses her again, even though she tries to twist her head away, but she ends up kissing him anyway. A desperate kiss, barely coordinated, half drowned in the spray. Her wet hair coils and tangles between them. She can feel the low grate of Deucalion's voice against her mouth, but the water kills all the words. She knows it's nothing she wants to hear, that it's something that will ruin this one, good, hard moment where she feels like she can reach that coil of sick tension inside her, that she can grab it and pull it loose.

She demands, against his mouth, words she'll regret later, that she'll hate herself for in the dark. But he growls and grips her tighter, picks up the pace, until it's just a breath away from painful, something that will bruise her. Which is enough to shatter anything that might be shame, leaving behind the hot flare of want from this thing that's forbidden and obscene. Until she's clenching and unraveling, digging her nails into Deucalion's shoulders, hard enough to break the skin. She watches his teeth come together, feels the burn of relief stab low and deep and cut sense out of every one of her limbs. She makes a noise, soft and breathless and Deucalion presses her hard against the wall, snarls into the curve of her throat - Allison catches at his neck, but all he does is drag blunt teeth there. She can feel him, inside her and against her, the heat of his body plastering her to the wall, where he holds her and doesn't let her go.

She's breathing hard, inhaling tiny droplets of water, body loose and twisting with satisfaction and relief, and not half as much shame than she thinks she should feel, as she wants to feel.

Deucalion sets her down on shaky legs, presses his face lazily against the side of hers, and she tells herself she's too tired to pull away. She feels him drawing wet hair away from the bruised skin of her neck, fingers gentle. She can feel the sharp sting where his nails cut her thigh, the slick warmth where he'd eased out of her.

"I hate to see something so beautiful so frustrated, Allison."

She pushes him aside, and picks up her towel, presses it shakily to her breasts. Even though she knows it's too little, too late.

"My frustration is none of your business," she says, voice thready but firm.

She heads for the door, and doesn't look back.


End file.
